Deception!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  Charlie started to run after her, but the slope was steep and she slowed to a walk after a few metres. She had a lot of thinking to do herself. She’d had one problem: how to trap Michael Hawkins into giving himself away and thus push him towards arrest and punishment. Now it seemed she had two problems. Not only did she have to deal with the father, but the daughter was going to do something rash and expected her to help. How on earth had she got herself into this situation? She desperately wanted to talk things through with Suzanne, but something told her that wouldn’t be a good idea. Her sister would want her to get away and leave them be; or worse still, she would insist on coming back out to Brazil to help her. And that wouldn’t be a good idea at all.

  Suddenly a thought struck her and the simplicity of the solution made her laugh out loud with delight. There was one other person who hated Michael Hawkins as much as the Jones sisters, one person who would sympathise with her current plight—and might very well have the answer to her problems. Francine Matheson! In her early days as an MP, long before she became Parliamentary Under-secretary in the Department of International Affairs, Francine had made a mistake. A mistake which Hawkins, in his persona of Sir Fredrick Michaels, had exploited two years ago when making his escape from Britain. She would be able to help; probably with both sides of the problem. That was it! As soon as she was back in São Paulo, she would phone Francine and ask for her help.

  CHAPTER 24

  By the time she’d finished her phone conversation with Francine on the Sunday evening, Charlie had put together a clear plan of action, although she wasn’t going to tell Mercy just where she’d got her information from. Nor did she plan to tell her the place of refuge she’d arranged for them was actually a safe house connected to the British Embassy.

  The two women met as usual at lunchtime on the Tuesday morning after their trip to Iguaçu. Hawkins’ daughter was jumpy, more anxious than usual, and eager to talk about their plans for Rio. She seemed grateful and relieved to hear Charlie had some thoughts about how she could run away from Hawkins.

  ‘I’ve found us a safe place to hide for a few hours,’ she said, ‘and then friends of mine will smuggle you to the airport, where I’ve secured you a place on a flight out of Brazil.’

  ‘Where will I be going?’ Mercy asked, ‘And won’t you be coming with me?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, Mercy. It will look more suspicious if both of us disappear together. I’m going to go back to your father and say we got separated in the crowd. It’s easily done and if we lose your bodyguards at the same time, he can’t say anything, now can he?’

  She dodged the question of where Mercy would be going. Taking her into protective custody might seem like an extreme measure, but if Hawkins was brought to trial, as Charlie hoped he would be, then Mercy could well be an important witness, with her knowledge of his early life in Africa before he became a senior public servant in Her Majesty’s Government. And Charlie didn’t want her disappearing before they had a chance to question her. So a quick trip across the Caribbean to the nearest British territory seemed a good move in the first instance.

  The two women moved on to discussing the practicalities of Mercy’s escape. She told Charlie that since she’d come to Brazil, her father had given her a generous allowance and she’d taken the opportunity to build up quite a good wardrobe. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to take much of it with her.

  ‘We’re only supposed to be going to Rio for a few days, so I won’t get away with too much luggage,’ she said.

  ‘And besides, you’re running away during an evening out. Difficult to take suitcases with you, I would have thought,’ replied Charlie.

  Mercy shrugged.

  ‘It’s a pity, but let’s face it, I arrived in this country with nothing but the clothes I stood up in. I can always leave the same way.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure it’s quite that bad,’ said Charlie. ‘If you pack a small bag, I’ll take it to my friends earlier in the week and they can hold it for you. I take it you’ve got some money?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got credit cards.’

  ‘No, that’s no good!’ Charlie was overly emphatic and realised one or two of the diners at the surrounding tables were looking curiously at her. Luckily she was speaking in English, so not everyone would understand their conversation. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice and smiled apologetically at her companion. ‘Sorry, but even if your father doesn’t cancel them, it’s not a good idea to use them. They’ll pinpoint your location—and since you presumably don’t want to be found again...’

  ‘Okay, so I need cash,’ said Mercy. ‘I’ll draw some out over the next couple of days.’

  ‘And if you wear some of that swanky jewellery you were flashing around last weekend,’ said Charlie with a grin, ‘you can always hock that if you need some more cash.’

  The women agreed they would put their plan into action on Tuesday, the last night of their visit, and the last day before Ash Wednesday and the start of Lent. Which left Charlie with just a week to get closer to Michael Hawkins and try to find his weak spot. She needed to step up her activities.

  Over the next three days, Charlie managed to manoeuvre herself into dinner invitations twice at the Hawkins residence. The first time, Hawkins was going out and although he was pleasant enough when they met, telling Charlie he was pleased to hear she was accompanying them to Rio, he didn’t stay long. Waving a hand and reminding Mercy not to wait up for him, he disappeared through the front door, followed by his chauffeur. Mercy pulled a face.

  ‘He’s going to one of his meetings at Il Paradiso.’

  ‘Isn’t that the strip joint everyone’s talking about?’

  ‘That’s the one! He tells me he’s only going because that’s where his client likes to meet, but he always comes home stinking of cheap perfume. I think he enjoys it alright!’

  Charlie was amused at the look of prudish distaste on her friend’s face but thought it better to keep this to herself. She took the opportunity of having a snoop around the house, even finding her way into Hawkins’ study. She was just trying all the desk drawers, which were frustratingly locked, when she heard Mercy outside in the hall calling for her. She poked her head out of the door, using the lame excuse that she’d got lost looking for the bathroom. Luckily Mercy hadn’t seen as many B movies as she had, and took her explanation at face value. She clicked the door closed behind Charlie and pointed her in the right direction.

  ‘It’s a good job my father’s not here,’ she said when Charlie re-joined her in the dining room. ‘No-one goes into his study uninvited—and certainly not when he’s not here.’

  The second time she was invited to dinner was the evening before they left for Rio. Hawkins wanted to get away early the following day—‘more business meetings, I guess,’ said Mercy—and as Charlie had told them she was staying in student accommodation on the other side of the city, they suggested she spend the night with them, ready for the early start. And this time, Hawkins stayed in and joined them for drinks on the terrace before dinner. It was the first time Charlie had the chance to study her quarry up close and she could see why he’d managed to get away with so much for so long.

  Put simply, Michael Hawkins could be very good company when he wanted to be. Casually dressed, clean-shaven and with his hair trimmed very short and dyed a natural-looking pepper and salt, he appeared at least ten years younger than the sixty-seven Charlie knew him to be. He looked directly at her when he asked a question, and maintained eye contact, nodding encouragingly, as she answered him. She could feel herself starting to like this man, against her will, and reminded herself, that just like Kipling’s Shere Khan, Michael Hawkins was a deadly enemy, even if he didn’t always appear that way.

  It was after dinner, as Mercy was out of the room, that Hawkins dropped a bombshell.

  ‘Rose, have we met before? I’m sure I know your face from somewhere, but I can’t place it.’ Charlie felt like a bucket of ice h
ad been tipped over her. She struggled to keep her face straight.

  ‘I don’t think so, Michael. I’d have remembered if we had.’

  ‘I saw you at the sports ground, you know. On the weekend of the race meeting. The day Mercy won her medal. I thought I recognised you then, too.’

  ‘Maybe you saw me in the newspaper,’ Charlie was thinking rapidly and the words came out before she had time to fully polish the story, but it would have to do. ‘I won a couple of competitions a few years back; was quite the darling of the press for a few months.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘It didn’t last, of course. You’re only as good as your last book.’

  Hawkins stared at her, slowly rubbing his temples. Then he shrugged.

  ‘Maybe that’s it. But I’ll keep thinking. It’ll come to me.’ He pointed at her and winked. ‘I never forget a face, you know.’ At that moment, Mercy came back into the room and his attention turned to his daughter. But it was a long time before Charlie could still her racing thoughts.

  CHAPTER 25 (Lourenço Marques, August 1967)

  I met Grace Gove in the most prosaic of ways, at the grocery store in her home town about two hours’ drive from the Mozambique capital. We had been approached about getting involved in a new project, a casino being built in the countryside, and Stefano sent me up there to see what was going on. I’d come to the conclusion there was nothing in it for us. The guys organising the project were losers, all of them, and the chances of the place having many customers, short of running tourist buses out there each night, were slim to say the least. And although the activities of FRELIMO hadn’t reached this far yet, rumours of guerrilla movements were being whispered in every bar I visited. I was about to ring Stefano and tell him I was on my way home when I heard someone singing.

  She had the sweetest voice I’d ever heard. She was singing softly to herself as she stacked cans on the shelves at the back of the store. The tune sounded familiar, and I realised later it was one of the ones we used to sing during the services Joe Marks held in his Cape Town church. If I’d realised that, I might have taken it as a sign to leave well alone, made that phone call to Stefano, returned to Lourenço Marques and forgotten all about Grace. But that wasn’t what happened.

  I stayed in that little town for the next ten days. On the first day I just smiled at her as I walked past. On the second day I tipped my hat to her and said, ‘Good morning, Ma’am.’ She smiled up shyly at me from beneath her long dark lashes, but said nothing. By the fourth day she’d got over her shyness and plucked up the courage to talk to me. By day seven she’d agreed to come out with me for a walk in the evening. And on day ten, when I got to the bus stop to pick up my ride back to the capital, she was waiting for me, a small bag clutched in her hand and a look between trepidation and expectation on her face. I had begged her the previous night to come with me, but until that last moment, I didn’t think she would agree. We said very little on that two-hour journey back to the city, just held hands tightly. I’m not sure which of us was the most nervous.

  We’d have been even more nervous if we’d known what Stefano’s reaction was going to be. It was one of the few times he yelled at me; and certainly the only time I ever yelled at him.

  When we got back to Lourenço Marques, it was early evening and Stefano was in the local restaurant he had bought and turned into his HQ. He was just beginning his usual evening meal of something typically Russian he’d taught the local cooks to make—borsch or maybe pilmeni—when we arrived. I walked in first and his face lit up when he saw me.

  ‘Michael, my dear boy! Welcome back.’ He jumped up and shook my hand then gave me a bear hug. ‘You’ve been away so long. You must have so much to tell me. Is the business going to be good..?’ but he stopped himself from going any further and slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Come, have some food first and then you can tell me all about it.’ He turned back to his table, but I caught his arm and stopped him.

  ‘No, wait, Stefano,’ I said, ‘first there’s someone I want you to meet.’ He turned back to me with a confused expression on his face. I opened the door and beckoned Grace in. She had been waiting outside until I called her and as she walked in, she was biting her lip and staring at the ground in front of her. ‘Stefano, I’d like you to meet Grace Gove. She’s come down from the town with me.’

  He stared at me for a few seconds, then it was like a shutter coming down on his face. He turned towards her, with a smile that warmed his lips but didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  ‘Miss Gove, how do you do?’ He indicated a spare chair at the table and clicked his fingers to the waiter to set another place. ‘Do sit down and join us; you must be hungry after your journey.’

  That was the longest meal I can ever remember eating and we sat in silence for much of the time. Stefano asked me a couple of questions about the trip, but seemed distracted and didn’t appear to be listening to my answers. Grace said nothing apart from a whispered ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ when someone spoke directly to her.

  At last we finished and as Stefano stirred strawberry jam into the thick black tea he insisted on drinking at the end of each meal, he finally looked at me.

  ‘Where will Miss Gove be staying tonight?’

  ‘I’m going to book her into one of the rooms in the hotel across the street from us,’ I said, feeling rather than seeing the look of disappointment on her face. I wanted to say she would be staying with me, but chickened out at the last minute.

  ‘Well, why don’t you take her over there now,’ my boss replied, ‘and come back here afterwards. You can brief me on your trip then. I’m sure Miss Gove would be very bored if we started talking business at this point.’

  We picked up her case and I took her hand. As we walked along the street to the little hotel, she looked up at me.

  ‘I don’t think your friend likes me.’

  ‘Who, Stefano?’ I tried to laugh off her concerns. ‘No, he’s fine. He wasn’t expecting you, that’s all. I’ll talk to him and explain the situation. So you’ll only have to stay here a night or two. Then we’ll sort something out.’

  I booked her into the hotel and saw her safely to her room. She begged me to stay with her, but I knew Stefano was waiting for me, so I kissed her goodnight and promised to call in for her first thing in the morning. Then I walked back down the road to the restaurant.

  ‘You idiot! What are you thinking?’ Stefano yelled at me the minute I walked in. It was late and we had the place to ourselves, which was just as well. ‘Or are you thinking at all?’ he went on. ‘You’re certainly not thinking with your brain, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Stefano—’ I began, but he wouldn’t let me finish. He jumped up from the table and began pacing backwards and forwards, waving his hands around.

  ‘How could you be so stupid? Bringing your money-grabbing little tart here; introducing her to me. You’ll be telling her all about our projects next.’ I stared at him in disbelief. He’d never spoken to me like this before. Finally, he sighed and sat down at the table again. ‘Look, Michael, I understand that you get lonely sometimes, need a bit of female company. We all do. But you go to visit them at their place, on their territory. You don’t bring them here. You don’t introduce them to your partners. And you don’t ever, EVER, risk them finding out about our business.’

  As he lapsed into a brooding silence, I started to reason with him, talking quietly at first. But my anger grew as I spoke and by the end of it, I was shouting as loudly as he had.

  ‘Number one, I’ve not told her anything about our business. She thinks I’m a salesman for farm machinery. Number two, I don’t see that I have to get your permission to have friends—you’re my business partner, not my father. And number three: she’s not money-grabbing, and she’s not my tart—she’s a respectable young lady.’

  At that he looked up and sneered at me.

  ‘Respectable? Really? Tell me, Michael, just how difficult was it to persuade her to come away with you? How l
ong have you known her, anyway? Three days? A week?’

  ‘Ten days,’ I replied sullenly.

  ‘Oh, pardon me,’ he said with exaggerated politeness, ‘ten whole days.’ He looked at me, his eyes cold. ‘And you think that’s long enough to forge a meaningful relationship, do you?’

  ‘Sometimes it doesn’t take that long,’ I said, but quieter now, worrying about his reaction.

  ‘How do you know you can trust her? She might find out all about us and then go to the police. Hell, she might even be a police informer.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Stefano. She’s a girl I met in a grocery store miles away from where we operate. How could she possibly be a police informer?’

  ‘Well, she might not be now, but she could become one in the future. She’s a weak link; I don’t like weak links.’

  ‘Of course she’s not a weak link,’ I shouted at him, still unable to accept what he was saying. ‘She’s a perfectly nice young lady and I think I’m falling in love with her.’ At this he turned towards me once more and the sneer on his face was unbearable.

  ‘Love? What do you know about love? You’ve only just met this little tart.’

  ‘I know enough to recognise it when it comes along,’ I yelled, jumping up and marching to the door. I turned as I yanked it open, letting the cool air from outside waft over me. ‘And for the last time, she’s not a little tart. She’s the woman I love—and I’m going to marry her—so get used to it.’ And I marched out of the door, slamming it behind me.

  I stomped across the road to our lodgings and threw myself onto my bed fully clothed. But despite being tired from the journey and the emotional trauma of the past few hours, it was a long time before I got to sleep. I lay, staring up into the darkness and listening to the ceiling fan creaking above me, until the light started creeping through the blinds, telling me dawn was approaching.